


The Ambivalence of Moral Ambiguity

by Nordic_Breeze



Series: Nighttime Encounters [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, F/M, Involuntarily Tied-Up, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 22:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21083834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze
Summary: She is a stranger forced to travel alone with prized goods. He is a stranger after that which forces her to travel. A chance interference by nature leads to one predator tackling the other, and the hunted becomes the huntress.Though the wild is not done with its meddling. The tables are turned yet again – literally and figuratively, and the huntress turns humble.





	The Ambivalence of Moral Ambiguity

**Author's Note:**

> This is, to some extent atleast, a darker and overall more crude version of my home robbery fic, though it's totally unrelated to my Against All Odds series. I enjoy exploring and dwelling on the contrariety of opposing emotions, including, at times, touching upon morally shady subjects and fiction is a good outlet for that. In real life we respect each other and don't do anything without the other's consent. Also, this is fiction and not sex-ed. Practice safe sex, peeps!
> 
> The main character is an unnamed female, and can be read as a reader insert or an OC.

With every successive turn obscured by darkness, her gaze is glued to what little view of the trail her lantern can offer. The hand not holding onto the kerosene lamp is pressing against her chest a velvet blue bucket bag that is not hers. She can taste the bitter aftermath of overworked muscles on her tongue. Her legs are screaming for a break but she can afford no such luxury. As no woman travelling alone in darkness can.

Though there’s more on her mind tonight than just the usual fears. She strains her ears, listening. Hearing nothing but the stomps of her own, hard steps against the forest floor. Her eyes, ceaselessly shifting from side to side, see nothing but a vague silhouette of trees. Whatever might be lurking in the veil of darkness beyond the small halo of illumination which her lamp provides is unperceivable to her, concealed by the starless night. Auditory cues drowned by the sound of gravel being crushed under her soles. But something is definitely lurking, of that she is sure. She hugs the pouch close to her chest. There’s always something prowling these woods – or, someone.

She is now heaving for air. Nausea is building up from strain and alarm. Her mouth is dry, and she can hear the pulse of her own blood racing past her eardrums but she has to keep pushing forward, and pushing herself she does. _Just a little bit longer, _she tells herself, stretching out her arm to light up as much of the path ahead as possible.

She does not know what she fears the most, bears or men.

She doesn’t see him until she nearly runs into him, her eyes so focused on the path ahead until, she sees not only gravel but also a pair of black boots with a metal tip. Then she sees the gun.

The abrupt change from racing and pacing to a full stop, coupled with the alarming sight in front of her has her going lightheaded. Her skin starts to prickle. The pounding in her chest and revolts of her stomach feels unbearable. She is drawing and expelling heaved, painful gasps of air. It’s impossible not to, even though it feels like her lungs are about to explode. She is also sure, it is what stops her from throwing up. Not that she wouldn’t mind throwing up at the figure in front of her.

If she’s lucky, he just wants her money.

He is dressed entirely in black. The bopping flame from her lantern reflects in the tip of his boots, his belt buckle, the metallic parts of his suspenders, and the ammunition attached to his belt. She now hears his voice, muffled by the cloth covering his nose and mouth, but his words fail to register. The monotonous tone with increasing intensity suggests he is repeating the same phrase over and over, a command no doubt, with waning patience. She steadfastly reclaims control of her inhales and exhales; the only thing which she is able to reclaim any sort of control of.

“Gimme yer purse!”

_Shit!_

The glossy, bewildered haze of long-lasting exhaust ensued by sudden terror fading from her gaze, the man with the gun can tell by the rising sharpness in her eyes that she is now fully aware of her predicament – and his words.

“Gimme yer purse and you won’t get hurt,” he repeats in a low, husky voice as gravelly as the ground they are standing on, extending his free hand.

She opts against drawing her own gun. He’d pull the trigger the moment her hand even goes near the firearm dangling from her hip.

“I-I can’t part with this, I just can’t.”

“Not my problem, Miss.”

“You don’t understand, if-if I-”

He steps closer. “Yer purse, now!”

_Click-click-click-click._

No word in the English language, nor in any other language she is sure, can do justice the sheer terror each click of the hammer brings to her. But for how strongly she fears the bullet, she fears showing up emptyhanded more. The pouch stays in her hands. There’s not a trace of sympathy to discern in the cold stare that is locked onto hers. Though had it not been so dark, had his eyes not been half obscured by the brim of his hat or, had the revolver pointing at her not stolen so much of her attention, she might have noticed that flicker of doubt ghosting over them ever so fleetingly.

A looming shadow in her peripheral vision, then a roar that can only belong to one creature. The barrel makes a 90 degree turn and she praises herself lucky that due to the hollers and frantic waves of the robber, the animal charges at him, ignoring her. A standoff of beast against beast is about to ensue, and as she turns away by sheer reflex there is but one clear thought racing through her mind.

_Count the shots._

_One-two-three-four-five-six-click-click-cl-_ vile roars morphed by fear and pain blends with another beast-like roar that may belong to one but not the animal. _That_ scream is positively human. The animal roars growing fainter and the rustling of leaves and snaps of twigs hint at the animal rapid escape and not before long, she hears the low, gruff whines of what is most definitely a man.

She picks up the lantern and approaches him, slowly, kicking away his gun before crouching next to him. He is aware – for now. Two lacerations run diagonally across his chest, and his shirt is already soaked in blood. His bandana is still on but his hat has fallen off in the turmoil. Dirt-colored, tousled locks frames his face. She locks her gaze with his, saying nothing as she watches the sharpness in his eyes fade.

She does not know what she fears the most, bear or man. But by some wild streak of chance, the former had inadvertently saved her from the latter. His eyes are resting on her as his lids slide shut.

The hunter has become prey.

Blood is seeping out of the claw marks in his skin. She puts aside the oil lamp and removes the shawl around her neck to use as a compress. The hoot-hoots from a nearby owl is heard above. Another hunter has entered to the area. This one far more benevolent, - at least from the perspective of man. Continuing to apply pressure to his wounds, she leans forward to tear the bandana off, exposing his ugly mu-

Though for identification purposes only she had, albeit subconsciously, expected someone doing such an ugly deed as to aim a loaded gun at her chest with the intent of taking what is not theirs, to _look _ugly too, or, at least not handsome. She had certainly not expected _this_.

Her eyes remain transfixed on his lips, an irrational anger of not finding him unattractive searing inside her. The pressure to his chest intensifies. A low groan escapes through plush lips, and the muscles around his closed eyes twitch.

Twenty breaths of air later, the bleeding has all but stopped though he is still unconscious. She removes the fabric to unbutton his shirt. The slashes are not as severe as she had thought, hardly what could be called deep at all, but they still need care. She grabs her lantern and heads into the forest. Hidden in the darkness beyond is Reed’s cottage. There are no flickers to be seen, meaning it is likely uninhabited, though she still threads carefully.

Her suspicion is confirmed. The cottage is – or, rather was, vacant, but is now occupied by a man and a woman, strangers to each other. The former tied to a sturdy chair, the latter watching him carefully on the other side of a table corner. On said table are first aid supplies, loaded guns, both his and hers, a hunting knife most definitely not hers and a turquoise bucket bag. A wheelbarrow outside and a bundle of rope in a drawer had served her well, and with three loaded firearms at her disposal she does not particularly worry about unexpected visitors. A potential threat she perhaps should take more seriously, though for the moment she has more than enough with the one in front of her.

She starts tending to his injuries. The sting of alcohol rips him out of insentience. It takes a few, bewildered heartbeats for remembrance to show in his flickering eyes, taking in their surroundings, – landing on her. Darkening as the spark of recognition sets.

His victim. Now his captor.

“Sit still!”

He does not, in fact, sit still though he resigns soon enough, penalized by a searing pain in his shoulder from trying to free his tied-up hands.

“The bear got you pretty good. Though it looks worse than it is.”

“Why’re you doing this?”

His guise is blank save from a steadfast glare but sweat running from his forehead and temples betrays his well-concealed agony.

“To prevent you from bleeding out or getting an infection.”

“You think the law will pay you less if I’m dead?”

She offers no reply to that, and he watches in silence as she cleans and dresses his wounds to her best ability with what she had found in drawers and cupboards. After she is done, she retrieves and unscrews a bottle which she puts to his mouth.

“Here, drink.”

He makes no attempt to drink.

“It’s a health cure. It’ll relieve most of the pain. Besides, you are dehydrated.”

He remains verbally idle. She snags a hold of his hair and pulls back on his head while simultaneously inserting the tip in between his lips. He gulps down the pale-yellow liquid, with as much spilling outside of his mouth as he swallows, making his jaw and neck moist.

“Careful now.”

She makes sure he downs at least half of the content, roused by how he has no choice but to obey. “Now, that wasn’t so hard was it? You seriously think I’d go through all this trouble only to poison you afterwards?”

He glares back at her. His parted, plump lips are moist from the concoction, making them shiny. She subconsciously licks her own.

“Did you know?” she asks, gesturing at the velvet purse, “Or was I just some random victim?”

“Yeah, I knew. What yer expecting, woman?” He scoffs upon seeing her expression. “I’m a thief. An outlaw. Robbin’ folk’s what I do.”

“Oh, I see. It’s what you _do_.” Now she is the one to scoff. She leans in close. “Theft isn’t a profession. It’s a crime. And you needin’ money for hooch’n whores ain’t my problem. Or anyone else’s.”

Her rejoinder is met with a haughty snort.

“You got any idea what they’ll do to me if I-”

“Just tell’em you got robbed,” he interjects with a lopsided grin.

“You really think it’s that easy? Or you just don’t give a fuck?”

She takes his knife out of its holster and places the dull end to his throat, locking gaze with those piercing bluish-green of his. The colors of the ocean, she muses. Clear, refreshing, beautiful ocean. _Intoxicating._ The kind she could easily drown in.

_I have to be careful_ she silently avows, though she hardly knows why.

“Yer ain’t gonna hurt me with the dull end, lady.”

That smirk and the low-key chuckle. Haughty, arrogant and taunting in a quandary that would’ve had others react with fear and compliance. So, he _can_ tell. Of that and of her hesitance. That leaves her but one assumption; it’s not the first time he’s had a knife to his throat. His demeanor infuriates her. Conversely, his features, his intense stare, his voice _\- him_, makes her fiery hot in a different kind of way. She is aching to kiss that smug grin off his face. To kiss him into submission.

She turns the blade around, the corner of her lips drawing closer to her eyes as she holds the blade to his skin, daring him to provoke her further. He stares back in a wordless goad.

“What’s your name?”

She lets the blade cut into his skin ever so slightly. A smile creeps further up her face at the crimson stipe materializing on his neck. If it hurts, he does not show, but the corners of his mouth slack. The corners of hers do not. She swipes her thumb over the cut and proceeds to smear his blood across his cheek. Then she kisses his lips.

Oh, he’ll surrender all right. It’s not like he has much of a choice on the matter.

“First name’s fine,” she breathes in between lapping and nibbling his lips.

“Arthur.”

He does not ask for hers, as he seems to realize, she will not give it. That he hasn’t earned. She leans back to meet his eyes again, not so haughty anymore but mystified and unsure. His discomfort seems to arise from finding himself in a situation in which he does not have control. He is clearly used to intimidation as a means to get his way, - and to find his way out of trouble.

“Nice to meet you, Arthur.” With a soft swipe she caresses his hair, tucking away strands drooping over his forehead. “I mean that,” she adds with a hint of a smile that looks deceivingly tender. With a swift motion of the blade, she cuts his shirt open.

“All rite, yer made yer point!”

His arms are feebly and uselessly struggling against her tight knots. Now it is she who lets out a haughty chuckle. “I am just getting started, cowboy. _A point_ is not at all what I want to make.”

The menacing mien only adds to the fire burning within her. She puts the knife away and goes to retrieve a bundle of dollar bills. “I can part with this. Five-ten-eleven-twelve dollars.” She puts the money on the table. “Here’s how this is gonna go. I'll fuck you. After which, you get the money and I keep the bag with its content.” She straddles him. “Then we part ways. I leave you alone, you leave me alone.”

She rubs against him while kissing his neck and chest. His musky scent blends with whiskey, moss, tobacco, gunpowder, maure, and sweat, telling its own tale of the kind of life he leads, adding its own unique, most delicious flavor to the ever-growing thrill rousing between her legs.

“I ain’t agreed to the offer yet.”

_A barrel pointing at her chest, a heartless command, and a pair of cold, blue-green eyes._

She slaps him hard across the cheek. “It ain’t an offer, Sweetheart.”

She clutches his jaw, nails digging into his skin, her other hand crawling down his chest. She leans in close to his ear. “I wanna see the big, bad outlaw squirm.”

She makes sure to draw out the last syllable, spoken in a particular low, hissing tone with an ample amount of outflux air, slowly moving her head to meet his eyes so she can watch the change in his face to her words, - and her palm clutching his groin as the _mmm-_sound fades from her lips.

Had he doubted her sincerity before he certainly no longer does. That shift in his eyes she had hoped to see, subtle but noticeable, reveals he no longer thinks of her as merely talk and empty threats. She lingers on his groin, massaging him between his legs, so slowly at first, he wonders if he is imagining it. He is not. Her smirk spreads as she feels a swelling resistance under the fabric of his pants. A carnal, uncontrolled response to her touch. _She_ is the one in control.

“All right, Ma’am,” he grunts.

She goes off him and begins to undress. A sudden realization, a clarity of thought, _this stranger is about to see her naked_. A wave of bashfulness runs through her, making her cheeks warm but her hands move with the same speed. She considers blindfolding him but decides against it due to a strange perception of owning up to her actions that she can’t quite put into a rational thought. Not that there is much rationale to find in this cabin tonight. He looks equally conscious of the situation. She wonders whether or not he will turn away when she starts to remove her bottom clothing. He does not. As embarrassing it may be to undress in front of a complete stranger, the growing heat in his lustrous stare sends a surge of heat to her core, turning self-consciousness to concupiscence.

Wearing nothing aside from an unbuttoned shirt she straddles him again, kissing and biting his face and chest as she unbuttons his pants, wrapping her hands around his length, stroking him. She runs her thumb over the tip and places said thumb to her mouth, gently sucking on the soft part. His jaw slacks and his lips part. He can’t quite believe what he sees. The desire to draw this out, to enjoy the taste of him, has to be weighed against the inkling that he is not going to last long once they get down to it. She strokes him a few times more, raveling in the unvarnished, conflicted pleasure painted on his face before guiding his tip to her entrance.

“You think you can - just…,” she slides down on him, “…take from folks what is theirs…,” watching in delight the rapid heaves and falls of his chest as he pathetically struggles for some kind of measly, perceived control, “…claiming it as yours…,” sliding, “…threatening to…,” almost now, “…end their life if they…,” his face now a burning red as she sits fully down on him, “…disobey!”

“You got a funny way of - punishing a feller for his wrongdoings, Miss.”

“You ought to be glad I went with this as opposed to continuing with the knife.”

“I - guess.”

She hoists herself up then slowly sinking back down but never letting him fully inside. And again, humored by the twitches and distortions in his gorgeous face. And again, one more time to taunt him real good. Continuing the slow pace, she grabs a hold of his hair at the back of his head and forces his line of vision straight to the center of the action.

“Look, Arthur!” she commands. “Look at yer cock going in and out of me.”

He responds with a cluster of muffled growls. His eyes squeeze shut and his upper lip curls upwards, flashing his gritted teeth and adding wrinkles of strain to his nose and the corners of his eyes, wrinkles that fade as impromptu moans escape his clenched jaw.

“Imma-Imma-”

To prevent him from doing just _that_ she slows down to barely moving at all.

“I said, LOOK!”

His breaths are heaved and his entire face a fiery red from the urge for the release to which his body screams. He grinds his forehead into the pit where her shoulder meets her neck.

“Please…”

The plea and the utter desperation in his voice adds to her exhilaration and arousal like she has never felt before, encouraging her to keep up her torturously slow pace to hear him beg once more.

“Look at your cock,” she half moans, half sneers, squeezing her pelvic muscles around him as she tightens her grip on his hair. “I ain’t picking up pace until you do.”

He obeys. The sight that meets him stirs in him such an overwhelming need for release it's unbearable. She rewards him by going faster, pushing herself down on him properly this time with each thrust. She reaches down to help herself to the impending climax with the touch of her hand, a sight that is far from displeasing to him as is evident by his sudden, heaved, lascivious gasps. The look on his face denotes it’s the first time a woman has done this when intimate with him. And _Oh! heavens_ does it excite him.

“You like that?” she pants, angling her hips to give him a better view of her hand moving in circles between her legs. “Then watch me.”

She comes first, then he joins, impossible to hold back when she is riding him so good whilst lewdly screaming out her pleasure.

After their concurrent orgasms, she stays on top of him with her arms wrapped around him. Keeping him inside of her as the rise and fall of their chests gradually slows. She’d failed to pull him out in time and she can hardly fault him for it. She’s not too worried, however. It’s not the ideal time of her cycle for _that_ to be a concern. In any case, she will make sure to drink some tea with a low dose of Oleander Sage.

She staggers off him and tucks him back in with a smile before dressing herself in a hurry.

“A robbery turning into a tryst. Quite an unexpected turn of events I’d say.” She latches onto the lapels of his torn shirt and kisses him one last time before snatching the velvet purse from the table. “But I must be on my way. It really was wonderful meeting you.”

“Hey, _hey_, what ‘bout me?”

His face is still a flustered red, and his head a mess of tousled hair. He still can’t quite believe what just happened.

“What about you?”

“Yer gonna leave me here?”

She responds with an unmoved shrug, and heads halfway out the door.

“I thought we had a deal.”

She turns, taking two, slow steps into the cottage as she speaks. “I gave you the money. I’ve kept my word. Though you can hardly expect me to believe you’ll keep yours – thief.” She flashes him a coquettish, but indignant simper as she nods towards the table.

“Your knife’s right there. You’ll manage.”

As soon as the last word is spoken, a bullet flies through the half open door, barely missing her skull.

She dives over the table out of sheer reflex, flipping it over to serve as a cover. The prisoner’s knife and revolvers land beside her. She reaches out to pull said prisoner behind the off-the-cuff cover as he yells at her to cut him free. The knife, she must have shuffled it away when dragging its owner behind the wooden barrier. Each strike of a projectile to the tabletop leaves behind an inward bulge in the woodwork separating the two strangers from a hail of bullets.

“The rope, dammit!”

The voices are getting louder. They are coming.

“Woman, I swear yer gonna-”

That is all she hears before the deafening sound of gunfire drowns out all other sounds. She fires over the tipped table, no idea where she’s aiming. Her intent is not as much that of hitting a moving target as getting these targets at bay until the more skilled gunfighter can take over.

Through rebel yells from outside and bullets blazing inside she spots the knife, and she immediately starts severing the ropes around the gunman’s hands.

Too slow! They are coming closer. She picks up speed. Not fast enough. Closer. She picks up another handgun, firing with one hand, cutting the ropes with the other, doing neither very skillfully.

The rope snaps, and he wastes no time snatching the third and remaining gun and start firing. Killing them, one by one. His draw is faster than the blink of an eye, his aim unparalleled, his hesitance absent, - his opponents doomed. She had done right by not challenging him earlier.

As quietness sets, she sits frozen. He does not. While the alarm searing through her every limb and bone has her muscles taut and locked in place, _he_ casually reloads and holsters his weapons before strolling away with blasé nonchalance.

A minute of frozen limbs and hitched breaths later, she dives for the blue velvet, as if the outlaw would all of a sudden decide to go for the purse he’d ignored on his way out as blatantly as he’d ignored her. She picks up her belongings and steps outside with trembly knees, zigzagging the corpses of the men whom had attacked them.

Broods.

She lifts her gaze to the sound of a whistle, followed by trampling of hooves. She watches him mount the steed coming to whisk him away. His hat is back on his head. He must’ve gone back for it while she was mustering the strength to rise to her feet.

“Need a ride into town?”

The question is so unexpected she is sure it’s just a taunt, or a ruse. He repeats his offer, this time with an outstretched hand. She approaches him, hesitantly. The sincerity to his demeanor, both in tone and in expression, makes her doubt the former. There’s this raw, unadulterated candor to his conduct, convincing her the sincerity is genuine. And if the latter, why go thought the trouble of deceit when he could just as easily aim one of those guns at her, resuming from where he was interrupted an hour earlier. He doesn’t strike her as the type who’d opt for ploys or stratagems but rather choose violence over wits.

“I ain’t the only one after that purse. I’ll make sure you get to the nearest town in one piece.”

She accepts his hand, avoiding his gaze as he pulls her up. The first ten minutes of the ride transpires in utter silence. Though as unconceivable and absurd a mundane conversation may seem after such an occurrence or, occurrences, silence will, as enough time passes, feel even more unbearable. The gunslinger is the first to speak, asking her if she is okay back there and whether she had traversed these woods out of thrill or necessity, followed by a redundant and unsolicited warning of its dangers.

“Had I not known any better I might be fooled to think you’re worried ’bout me.”

“S’ not safe out here,‘s all I’m sayin’.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed. But as you can see, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” A rumble from his chest suggests he does not all but agree, though he doesn’t entirely seem to disagree either. She would have continued accentuating her capability but at present she’s more interested in figuring out his character.

“Though we did make a good team back there, don’t you think? – in more ways than one.”

He lets out a gauche, but amused chuckle at the underlying innuendo and proceeds to ask for her name. To her surprise she tells him but digresses the conversation to avoid personal questions. The recent confrontation fresh in mind she observes how he has no problem taking care of himself either, remarking that he seems right in his element when on horseback – and in the midst of gunfire. He does not deny any of this, though he doesn’t contribute heartily to the conversation either.

She finds an odd comfort in the ensuing small talk. A conversation as mundane as they come. The emotions simmering within are not.

He drops her off at Annesburg and rides off with a two-finger wave. She forces away the thought of how he could put those fingers to good use, though a sweet kind of shiver rushing through her is telltale that her body wants what her mind refuses to acknowledge. Not that she allows herself to dwell on that. Nor of the fact that he _had _kept his word, and more so.

She watches him disappear into the greenery before turning on her heels towards a plain, wooden building, its walls barren and insipid. She walks out two minutes later, an ounce lighter in weight but a ton lighter in worry. She has delivered the bag, which content she is not sure. Though she could make an educated guess, she refrains. She has paid her debt. Her loved ones are free. _She _is free.

Starving, she drops by the saloon for a hearty meal and a drink. She has but placed her order before screams and gunfire from outside have everybody’s heads turn. She follows the clientele outside. Though obscured by both distance and speed, she recognizes the mount, - and rider, immediately. Shooting his way out of town. His identity concealed by a bandana and a black hat. A flash of blue catches her eye and though impossible to confirm, she just _knows_.

He _had_ been plotting a scheme all right, just not the way she had thought.

A smile skews her lips.


End file.
